Sometimes I'm Still Beautiful
by Argyle.S
Summary: After Molly's birthday party, she and Arthur has a private moment.


Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter and all associated characters, places, spells etc. belong to J. K. Rowling. I am just borrowing them for a use I'm rather sure she wouldn't approve of. No money is being made.

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I looked at the picture. It was always simply "the picture" to me. It was taken over three decades ago, and captured one of the happiest moments of my life. My parents stand in off to one side which Gideon, the spitting image of Charlie, and Fabian, who could pass for Fred or George whisper to each other off to the other side. In the middle of the picture, a sixteen year old Arthur Weasley holds an attractive young girl who could be our Ginny's sister. We Prewetts may have been a bit more stoutly built than the tall, lanky Weasleys, but I can say without vanity that at fifteen I was, if not as stunningly beautiful as Andromeda Black, pretty enough that I never wanted for attention from boys.

Three decades have changed things.

The picture sits in front of my mirror, and the reflection is very different from the girl in the picture. My face carries its share of laugh lines and crows feet. My waist has never recovered completely from my last pregnancy. My hair is shot with streaks of grey. My breast are larger, but beneath the thin cotton of my nightdress I know the nipples are baby chewed.

It was my 49th birthday, and I wore every wrinkle, stretch mark and grey hair like a medal. Why shouldn't I? I'd earned every one.

But every once in a while, I would wish life had left me a little less battle scared and care worn. Every once in a while, I looked at the picture and remember what it was like to be beautiful.

I put the picture down when I heard the cracks of Disapparation from down stairs. Ron, Harry, Hermione and Ginny had stayed to clean up. It was probably the girls' idea. I love Ron dearly, but that boy would expect me to clean up at my own funeral.

I climbed into bed as Arthur climbed the stairs. He smiled at me as he closed the door, then started undressing. I braced myself as he unbuttoned his robes. The years had been kinder to him, but the sight of the six round, puckered scars on his right side were still enough to stop my heart if they caught me unaware. They make me think of the picture. They make me think of my brothers.

As much as I hate those scars, I love the way he wears them. Without self-consciousness, without shame, without, really, any awareness of why I find those hideous, horrifying scars so wonderful.

I hate them. I hate the way they mar him. I hate the beast that put them there.

Thirty-four years after our first date, I still love the man who bears them for him courage, for his compassion and for his integrity. Those scars are proof of the kind of man Arthur Weasley is.

And perhaps they shouldn't have, but that night, seeing those scars, seeing such a clear reminder of Arthur, of every wonderful, crazy, brave, insane thing he'd ever done in three decades turned me on.

Yes, a witch of 49 can still get turned on.

Every night, when Arthur climbs into bed, he leans over and kisses me. That night, when his lips met mine, I opened my mouth to him, wrapped my arms around him, and pulled him down for a real kiss. I pressed the tip of my tongue against his lips and when he opened them, I slipped it inside and ran it over his tongue. I felt something hard press into my thigh and moaned.

Arthur never did need much encouragement.

I opened the buttons of his pajama top as his hands roamed over my nightdress. The room filled with sounds from both of us. I moaned as he nibbled on my ear. He groaned as I pinched his nipple roughly.

I slid my hand between us, running it down his stomach to the waistband of him pajamas. He arched towards me as I slipped my fingers inside.

I've always loved the way Arthur felt in my hand. He's long and slim and so sensitive he still gives that same little jerk of shock when I first grasp him that he gave when we were fifteen and hiding under the Quidditch stands.

I started stroking him and he lost all focus on what he was doing.

"Molly," he said in a tone of voice that always leaves me undone. It's cheating, really, so I decided on a bit of cheating of my own. I leaned down and closed my mouth over one of his nipples and sucked on it. The sound he made nearly finished me.

"Lie back, dear."

He nodded and rolled onto his back. I slipped my hand out of his pajamas and slipped them down before I settled between his legs. Then I leaned down and touched the tip of my tongue to the underside of him and ran it up his length. The tip was already sticky and tasted of salt and sugar. I pushed the foreskin back with my lips and sucked on him like a lolly.

My dear Arthur has never been known as a quiet man, but one of the advantages of having an empty house is that we didn't have bother with imperturbable charms anymore.

He thrust up and I took as much of him as I could in my mouth. I'm a small woman. One of the disadvantages of that is having a small mouth. I'd learned to compensate a long time ago. I just wrapped my hand around the rest of him and took long, slow strokes.

I watched him as I did it. His fists clenched in the sheets, his head rolled back and thrashed from side to side. He was so beautiful, he always has been, and nothing scars or grey or missing hair can do will ever change that about my dear, dear Arthur.

He groaned when I let him slip out of my mouth. He groaned louder when licked him again and wrapped my free hand around his balls.

"Please, Molly," he said, "Please."

I could never resist him when he begged.

I wrapped my lips around the head and started swirling my tongue over it, sometimes over top of the foreskin and sometimes slipping my tongue under it, while I stroked him with one hand and squeezed his balls with the other.

"I'm going to..." was as far as he got before I felt the first spurt on my tongue. I swallowed without even thinking about it. After a while, you learn these things, and I'd had a lot of practice.

When he was done and I could feel him softening in my hand, I moved up to lay beside him. His eyes were still closed and his breath still short, but he wrapped an arm around me and squeezed me tightly.

"I love you," he said just before he kissed me.

I felt him working open the buttons of my nightdress. He did it quickly and skillfully. After all, he'd had as much practice as I had. I lifted up so he could help me get the nightdress off. It fell to the floor next to his pajamas.

Then he looked at me.

How to describe that look? Thirty-four years and I still don't know. It's something like the look he gives some new muggle toy, but the comparison doesn't to it justice. In my entire life, the only time I've seen anything close to it was the day Ron proposed to Hermione, but even that wasn't as intense. It's a look of pure, shameless desire.

For years, people asked me why I put up with a husband who barely brought home a living. Even with his success after Fudge was removed, people still questioned why I tolerated his fascination with muggles, his absentmindedness, his childlike behavior, his impulsiveness. I never bothered to explain. They'll never understand because they'll never see how he looks at me.

He leaned over and I closed my eyes as his lips closed over my nipple. I sighed as his long, thin fingers slid through graying red curls and slipped between slick lips. I moaned as two fingers slid inside and his thumb found the spot he was looking for. Years of practice had its benefits.

I squeezed his fingers as he thrust into me. He curled his fingers up and found that good spot against my front. It was my turn to fist the sheets, my turn to throw my head back. My turn to beg.

"Arthur," I said.

His mouth left my breast and he trailed kisses down my front. It was slow torture until his thumb moved, replaced by a pair of fingers from his other hand. His tongue slid between my folds, caressing everywhere his fingers weren't.

When the first one hit, I screamed and arched my back. In seemed to go on forever, until I collapsed on the bed, panting for air.

Arthur replaced one set of fingers with his tongue and kept thrusting with the other set.

The second time, I didn't scream, but I heard the sheet rip.

Arthur sucked it between his lips and squeezed.

The third time, I screamed again. When it was over, I looked down and found him resting his cheek against my thigh and smiling at me.

"I love you," he said.

I reached for the bedside table and the one concession we've made to age. Arthur smiles and takes the condom. I take the potion once a week, like clockwork, and for me that would be enough. It's Arthur that insists. Arthur that keeps count and always brings home more before we run out. Arthur that hasn't forgotten how hard I took the news about my brothers, how it sent me into labor early, how close he came to losing me and Ginny both, and how dangerous the healers said another pregnancy would be.

I watch as he rolls it on. It glows and seems to vanish except for the ring at the base and the wetness on him.

And as he slips inside me, I see that look again. As he squeezes my breast and sucks them, I see that look. As he raises up so he can slip a hand between us and make sure I'm enjoying it as much as he is, I see that look.

It's the same look I see in the picture.

It's the look that made my father hate him and my brothers watch him like a hawk.

And I know, that no matter what age and life may do to me, that when he looks at me, I'm still beautiful.


End file.
